Cicadas sing a song of sorrow in my head
repeat it until i, too, buzzes with it
low and sad and empty

The moths outside my windows hear my calling
summon themselves around the building
They lift the house with hollow wings and
a hollow song

I don’t sing along with them.
I sing “It’s a good day to die”
and the void sings back
“It’s a better day to live”
and I don’t disagree